


the Los Ageless hang out by the bar

by provocation



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Background Relationships, First Meetings, Just two ADHD kings having very very very chatty sex, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29100672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Before Newt saves the world with Hermann, he goes to a terrible comedy show.Before Richie gets his memories back, he meets an interesting stranger at a bar.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	the Los Ageless hang out by the bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weedsinavacantlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weedsinavacantlot/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to Nicola; here's your very self-indulgent present! I love you!
> 
> Timeline? Canon timeline? We don’t know her. I figure if Steven D*knight and Stephen King can get away with some of the worst garbage writing ever, I’m allowed to do whatever I want. This is set in a mishmash of both universes and the timeline isn't especially important, but please note that Pacific Rim: Uprising isn't canon (and also Eddie is alive because I said so).
> 
> The title is from Los Ageless by St Vincent!!! You listen to the Wombats cover and tell me it isn't about Reddie

Richie is only playing this show as a favour to a friend. He tends to steer clear of the coastal states— both coasts, for reasons that aren’t quite clear to Richie himself. Avoiding the Pacific is just common sense in this day and age but the Atlantic should feel safe, so there’s no explanation for how antsy he starts to feel every time the refreshing sea air hits his lungs. His last therapist said it’s likely due to deep-seated trauma from his uneventful youth in Maine. He’s still working out how to spin that one into a joke.

Still, does New York City really count as coastal? The city is practically a state of its own, and any romantic Atlanticism that might blow in on the breeze from Long Island is quickly stifled by the thick stench of piss. It smells like home to anyone with a very specific disorder. Richie, an idiot who happily gulped down the Kool-Aid of California, just thinks it’s kind of smelly.

He wants to open with that, but his friend informed him that digs at the Big Apple aren’t really going to land with this crowd. He’s also been advised to steer clear of mocking mental illness when his own psychological state is not exactly public information, and for some reason the guy had vetoed Richie’s story about hitting a gravity bong with Tim Curry, which is _so_ unfair. That’s, like, his best story.

So he’s left with the dregs of a comedy show, but he somehow manages to put it together. He always does. Even though he’s shaking so hard in the green room that a very polite young woman asks if he’s _‘on uppers’_ , and even though he stumbles over his own fucking name (seriously, how difficult is his name? It’s only six syllables, Trashmouth included; seven if you’re fancy) he puts on a pretty good show. 

The residents of the dive bar seem happy, or maybe just drunk. But they laugh a gratifying amount at his weakest bit, and when he bows they all shout for more, which makes him feel so incredibly sexy and awesome. Like a stripper, or like he actually _is_ on uppers. He bows again, and when he ducks off stage, he thinks he sees a familiar face in the crowd.

The familiarity that hits him is not comfortable, like hearing your favourite oldies jam on the radio and remembering a friendly afternoon from your childhood in the backseat of someone’s car. Firstly, Richie doesn’t remember anything from his childhood. Secondly, the familiarity hits him like a punch to the stomach— maybe it might sound romantic, but in reality it just makes him feel really, really sick.

As the usher off-stage gushes about how that was _sooo_ funny, Richie pushes right past them. “I might throw up,” he excuses himself, making a beeline for the nearest garbage bin.

He doesn’t throw up. He does stand there, doubled over like he’s still on stage bowing. But nothing happens, so he just bends towards the garbage can and stares at somebody’s leftover half-sandwich and empty coffee cup until the feeling passes. A warm hand comes to rub his upper back and he thanks God for this undiscriminating usher.

The angel of an usher says, soft and sympathetic, “Is it the coke?”

“Jesus Christ,” Richie stands up. “It’s not the— I don’t _do_ coke. Do my nostrils really not look big enough already?”

“My bad, dude.” The guy looks him over, curious. “Is it just stage fright? I get it, man.”

Richie resists the urge to snap in this kid’s face that he’s played the goddamned Comedy Cellar. He shakes his head instead, displaying the grace and patience of the fucking Pope. “Yeah, thanks. Glad you liked the show.”

When he peeks out through the wings, whatever ghost from his past he saw has disappeared. The face is nowhere to be seen and he doesn’t even remember what they looked like.

  
  


As the curtains draw closed and the stage disappears from their view, the applause in the audience slowly fades into pleasant post-show conversation. The woman beside them who smelled like nicotine an hour ago rises from her seat before the last person stops clapping. She leaves her ticket stub on the armrest and pushes past everyone else in their row. 

Newt watches her go, wondering why she waited until the very end to take a smoke break. Maybe someone getting up and leaving would have given Trashmouth something to actually tell a joke about. He stretches his arms up and then twists his back from side to side, glancing over at Hermann. “Fuck, that guy sucked.”

And because Newt has an agreement with his best friend to never agree on anything ever, Hermann doesn’t nod or join in. He just sips his tea— _tea!_ At a comedy show in a New York dive bar! Like, who the fuck does he think he is? Newt had been secretly praying that the bouncer would ask him to pour it out but instead, Hermann was permitted to bring his cup of tea right past the sign declaring a ban on outside drinks. He’s been sipping it the whole show as if it hasn’t gone cold by now. It’s definitely gone cold by now, right? Newt fights the insane urge to reach over and drain the cup.

Hermann, ever the contrarian, swallows his mouthful of cold tea and replies, “I thought the show was quite funny, actually. I liked the bit about dating apps.”

“You— you liked the bit about— You’ve never downloaded a dating app in your god damn life!” sputters Newt.

“Of course not,” Hermann muses. Newt is going to slap that smug and thoughtful look right off his stupid face. “But it isn’t exactly hard to understand references to culture and how technology fails due to human imperfections. And he has a funny way of saying things. You don’t have to act all high and mighty, Newton, I heard you laughing at several of the jokes.”

“That’s the whole point of a comedy show, isn’t it? To laugh? God forbid I find something funny,” Newt throws his hands up in the air. This was supposed to be a mandated break from their usual routine; a vacation of sorts. And here they are falling into the same roles as always.

The couple in front of them gets to their feet now, both ignoring each other in favour of swiping through their phones. From what Newt had been able to gather from overhearing their small talk before the show, the man works as some sort of risk analyst and the woman is appropriately bored by this career choice. The guy glances over at Hermann and Newt, which is… weird. Maybe he’s a nerd and recognized them from their work or something.

“Anyway,” Newt continues as the couple heads to the exit, “yeah, he— I get it, he does have a funny way of saying things, but the things that he was saying were just so stupid. I mean, like, we’re talking about a real eighth-grade maturity level here. Also, can we start holding comedy guys accountable for how they talk about women? Even if he doesn’t write any of his own jokes, he still should vet them or whatever!”

“Ah, there it is,” Hermann laughs. What a grating, completely unattractive noise. “I suppose you think that you could do better.”

“You know what? Maybe I could! How hard could it be, getting up on stage and telling dick jokes for an hour straight? I can make the same totally fucking contrived jokes about blonde women and some uptight douchebag in the audience drinking cold tea will still think I’m God’s gift to the New York comedy scene, making excellent commentary on the— the inefficiencies of technology—”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” says Hermann, sounding unaffected as ever. “Firstly, to make a living in comedy, you need to be _funny_. And just because you say more words than everyone else in any room doesn’t mean that they’re worth listening to—”

“Exactly! Tell that to Trashmouth—”

“And secondly, you’re very obviously jealous. Your envy is entirely unnecessary, because I—”

“My _what_ ,” screeches Newt. The audience around them has mostly cleared out now, but the few remaining stragglers turn to look. This seems to affect the other scientist more than any words that have been said during the fight; he nervously fidgets with the end of his cane, obviously aware of the attention. Newt lowers his voice but only slightly, demanding, “What the hell would I be jealous of? And why would I— what?!”

“Perhaps if you had let me finish my sentence,” hisses Hermann, “I would have been able to tell you exactly what makes you seem jealous right now. But as it is, I think I’d rather leave before we ruin what I thought was an enjoyable night with more pointless bickering.” And he stands, clearly meaning it.

Newt stands too, and what he wants to do is grab Hermann by the collar of his shirt and pull him close and insist that Hermann _loves_ their pointless bickering, and that the bickering is what makes their rare nights out together enjoyable at all. But maybe Hermann really doesn’t feel the same way; maybe he’d prefer to keep their usual butting heads to the lab. 

The thought upsets Newt more than he’d like it to, and then he has to restrain himself from grabbing Hermann’s sleeves and tugging him forward and demanding to know if they’re actually fighting, irreparably, or if this is just more of the same. The regular way they treat each other is fine, right? Personally, he likes it when Hermann yells at him or rants for hours and hours about how incompetent and incorrect he is, detailing every single perceived flaw in his logic, however tiny. But maybe it’s been grating at his friend this entire time.

There was one particular joke in the show that had stood out to him about Tozier’s tendency to drive people (dates, mostly) away by always second-guessing them and himself. At the time Newt had thought it was funny, and he remembers glancing over to see Hermann smiling with amusement in the dim light. But now that he’s thinking about it, he just feels kind of bad for the guy who wrote that joke.

He doesn’t grab Hermann at all. He just lets the man go without another word, watching him leave in the same direction that the cute boring risk analyst went. Newt is annoyed, uncomfortable, tired, and probably too old to still be doing this kind of thing in public. If he were a little more honest with himself he could run down the aisles and chase after Hermann, confessing what he’s known for years: exactly why Hermann makes him tick.

But they’ve been friends for too long now to imagine making that sort of confession. So Newt does what any respectable single man his age would do after a night like this, and heads straight to the bar.

Richie can’t find the face he saw in the crowd earlier.

Truth be told, he doesn’t try very hard at all. He makes a brief appearance at the stage door for a smoke break, where a young couple asks him if he’s ever auditioned for a certain late-night sketch comedy show that broadcasts live from this very city. Richie spins his kind of depressing answer about definitely not being funny enough for SNL into a joke, and the couple giggles. Success!

It doesn’t feel like much of a victory, and the joint he smokes must have been rolled by someone stingy because he doesn’t feel particularly high. He stays out there in the back alley for longer than he probably should— long enough that if someone who saw the show came to find him out here, they might assume something was wrong. But it’s hard to summon the energy to go back inside and grab his stuff when all he can think about is a face that he can’t remember.

Jesus. Maybe he is high.

So Richie gives up on the mystery face that made him vomit, doing what any respectable stand-up comic would do after a night like this— heading straight to the bar. The bartender flashes a polite if banal smile his way and Richie picks out a seat far away from the taps and other patrons. He’s about to pull out his phone and start the mind-numbing process of checking Twitter when he sees a flash of artwork out of the corner of the eye.

The lounge isn’t particularly hot but it’s a warm evening, which must be why the guy four stools away is stripping out of his jacket. His arms are decked out in full sleeve tattoos, but unlike the vast majority of people who sit at bartops with full sleeves, he doesn’t seem like a threatening person. He’s short, and wearing thick-rimmed glasses, and… kind of familiar. 

Not in the ‘I’m gonna throw up because I can’t place your face’ way, but, like, maybe Richie has seen him on TV or something?

“Hey,” Richie calls over, but the bartender misunderstands him and assumes he’s trying to flag her down. She approaches as the man with tattoos and glasses turns, looking none too impressed with Richie. “Uh, hey, um, sorry. Uh, can I get a drink please? Something local?”

“Sure,” and she’s already reaching for a pint glass, smile thawing out a little. Richie meant _local_ as in a Manhattan or a Brooklyn or a Long Island Iced Tea; IPAs aren’t exactly his thing. But he’ll grimace through whatever hoppy bullshit he needs to as long as it makes him seem like less of an asshole to this random girl at this random bar he’s never going to see again. “We have a really nice new IPA; it’s one of my favourites.”

“Sounds great,” says Richie, flashing her a five-star smile. Glasses and tattoos approaches, sliding into a seat three away from his own. So he decides to take the plunge; “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?”

This seems to catch the stranger off-guard. “Oh, I don’t know, uh... you might? Do you keep up with the Pan Pacific Defense Corps?”

“Not really,” Richie confesses. It bums him out, honestly. He’s obviously always aware of the news to some extent, but downloading all the Kaiju Tracker apps and whatever the shit just got tiring. It’s far too grim to share with a random stranger at a bar but he figures that even with alien sea monsters or whatever today’s threat is, there’s no way he is going to outlast the world. “You work there?”

The guy nods stiffly. “I’m a scientist, I study the Kaiju.”

Richie grins. “Oh, that’s what that shark dude on your arm is!” Then he realizes why this scientist has probably come to talk to him, and he drops the grin. “Wait, did you catch the show tonight? Because, uh, if you’re just coming over here to tell me all about the inaccuracies of the Jaeger name joke, you can just save us both the time and Tweet me about it. I gotta make jumps like that, I mean— it doesn’t have to be one hundred percent accurate, it’s supposed to be funny.”

“Oh yeah?” The guy scoffs, but he’s smiling like he’s teasing Richie. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be funny, that changes everything!”

The bartender slides over his ale and Richie barely breaks away for long enough to thank her. When he tries the drink he cringes; it is, in fact, hoppier than a frog. Great. “So you didn’t like the show? Got any notes? Because I tell you what, I’d really love to hear what a jaeger scientist thinks is wrong with my comedy routine.”

“Kaiju,” the man repeats. “I work with Kaiju.” He sounds almost protective. “And I don’t have any notes, except, like, if you’re willing to axe all the jokes about your love life? But that might take a big chunk of your material, so…”

Now Richie is the one scoffing. He’s struck by disbelief that this guy is being so boldly rude to his face— it’s happened before, of course, but something about the way he’s doing it is… really doing it for Richie.

He obviously isn’t going to let this information slip so he just laughs it off, willing his desire away. (He’s done it a thousand times before, why shouldn’t it work now?) “What’s wrong with the sex jokes? Very orthodox way of criticizing them by the way; _love life_. I love it! I gotta incorporate that into my vocabulary more often. So romantic.”

“No, you’re right, I’m being too critical,” says mister tattooed scientist, lips wet from his drink. Richie mimics him and drinks his gross beer. “I’m being too critical! I mean, I’m not the one telling jokes about blonde women up on stage like it’s 2005.”

Point. Richie does hate the blonde jokes, but they’re some of his most popular bits. He doesn’t remember who wrote them for him— when you’ve worked with as many secret ghostwriters as he has, their names tend to blur together. He tried to spin one of the jokes into a bit about fixating on Barbie dolls, but the whole thing had come across as way too gay and as a result he never showed it to anyone. He runs into that problem a lot when writing. Honesty isn’t on the table right now though, so he just shrugs. “What’s wrong with blonde women?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know your routine is bad,” the guy points a finger at him, and for some reason, that one kind of lands. “I refuse to believe that you’re as stupid as you make yourself out to be. C’mon. You’ve got some funny stuff, but the vast majority— _yeesh!”_

“I do okay,” Richie replies, annoyed. “I do alright for myself. Hey, if you didn’t like the show, talk to the guy who owns this place and ask for a refund. I’d love to have two horrible conversations tonight!”

“I’m not gonna report you to your manager for bad comedy! I’m just _saying_ , you know, why not try to write your own stuff?”

And that’s it. Richie bristles, clenching his fist around the base of his glass tightly. He can tell his annoyance is visible on his face but he no longer cares. “Who says I don’t write my own fucking stuff?”

“Call it a hypothesis!” The guy adjusts his glasses. “Maybe I’m wrong and you really did pick the right stage name to match your charming personality and brilliant mind.”

“There’s a story behind that name, actually.” One that Richie doesn’t remember very clearly, so he made up a better one. “I’d tell you, but you’d probably call me a sexist, talentless hack.”

The scientist reaches into his pocket and retrieves a twenty, unfolding it and leaving it on the bar. Then he slides out of his seat towards Richie, and whoa, God, he is _so_ much shorter. Richie could practically use this guy’s head as an armrest. Without breaking eye contact, the man asks, “Wanna go somewhere, Trashmouth?”

“Haha,” Richie says uneasily, and then, “ _whoa_ , dude, are you trying to fight me?” He’s pretty sure he could win, but damn.

“No,” the guy clarifies. “I’m saying, do you wanna go somewhere?” This time it’s impossible for Richie to mistake the meaning behind his words.

He panics, nearly knocking his glass off the bar and into his lap. Richie is sure his breath is picking up and his heart is racing— he feels like he might be having a conniption. Is that a real thing or just something that people used to claim that they had in old books? Maybe he’s just straight up having a heart attack.

But the offer doesn’t get rescinded, even as Richie realizes that the twenty is to pay for _his_ drink. Even as he realizes that he’s getting propositioned by a dude. God, his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and fall on the floor of this disgusting dive bar.

“Yeah,” he answers before he can panic-think himself out of it. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” It’s nearly breathless but the guy doesn’t seem to mind, just flashing him a half-smile before turning on his heel and heading out, coat hanging off his arm.

Richie pays for the cab to the hotel.

He’s paying for the hotel too; it’s technically going to be covered by his manager, probably, so it’s fine if they get room service. Are they going to get room service, or just tear into each other the second the door locks? His palms are so sweaty that he apologizes as he hands the card reader back to the cabbie, and when his companion (!!!) goes into the elevator Richie presses the button two seconds before realizing he’s got to swipe his room key to get this thing going.

“I’m Newt,” announces the scientist, and when Richie has managed to get the elevator working he turns to stare. “Just thought we should get acquainted, uh… Newton Geiszler.”

“Ah,” Richie mumbles. “Yeah. Um. Newton Geiszler, PPDC.” There’s that familiar twinge at the back of his skull again. Is this guy, like, famous or whatever? “I’ll remember.”

“Nice,” Newt-Newton hums, as if they’ve already done the thing and now they’re saying their goodbyes. Richie’s mouth goes dry again, just like how it did when he glanced over in the backseat of their taxi and saw Newt drumming his fingers against his thigh.

The panic is only a dull buzz in the back of his mind now, but still very much present. The thing is— despite how much he’s always thought that this might be a nice thing to do, and might provide clarity about the kinds of things Richie thinks about when he’s touching himself, or even the things he doesn’t think about— he’s never managed to actually do it before. And by do it, he means… do it.

That’s not fair, of course. He’s had sex before; he’s had plenty of sex! If he were to count off his partners he’d have to hold up both hands to get enough fingers— that’s a fine amount for a shitty comedian from a shitty town in the middle of a shitty state. But he’s only had sex with women before, which has been manageable and usually mutually beneficial.

Richie has always imagined that if he were to hook up with a guy, he’d want to be friends first. And there’s his problem— not that he doesn’t want to hook up with any of the guys he knows, but that he doesn’t really have close friends. Anything leading toward intimacy is usually something he fucks up before they reach the friendship bracelet stage, so… yeah, no luck there. But here he is, leading a guy back to his hotel room! His therapist is going to be so proud of him!

Richie does _not_ share the thought that his therapist is going to be so proud of him, and instead says, stilted, right as the elevator doors open back up, “Should we order a bottle of something? Or raid the mini-fridge?”

“Hey, man, it’s your room,” Newt replies instantly, easily. His casual voice does put Richie at ease, and they make it to the room without any more slip-ups. He doesn’t even fumble with the key, which he counts as a success!

He grabs a small carafe of wine for each of them, which will probably run him like twenty-one dollars but is totally worth it. Newt strips off his leather jacket and messenger bag and puts them in the closet, pushing the hangers around seemingly just to hear them scrape on the pole.

Richie downs half his wine, and then holds out the other one for Newt. “You know,” he starts to joke, “usually I’d get you to sign an NDA but I feel like I should be the one doing that. Are you gonna divulge government secrets if I get you drunk?”

Newt laughs— victory!!— and accepts the wine, knocking it back like how Richie had. Richie grins, stepping out of his shoes and kicking them across the room. He can’t resist, “Hey, I made you laugh! So much for talentless hack!”

“You called yourself that,” Newt says, still smiling. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, showing off those tattoos again. “Anyway, have you ever seriously done that before? Like, is this your usual routine? Pick up a guy, make him sign a form saying he won’t talk about it—”

Richie, misunderstanding and only half-listening, interrupts to confess, “I’ve never done this before.” Newt blinks, jaw hanging open, and Richie cringes inwardly. Good Fucking Jesus Christ in Heaven, why the shit did he _say_ that? He’s the stupidest person in the fucking world— “I mean, that! Never done that, before. The NDA thingy. Just a joke! Bad joke, clearly!”

“Hold on.” Newt sits beside him on the bed— there’s more than a foot between them but it still feels way too close for comfort. “Hang on. You’ve never…?”

“Uh.” Richie shrugs one shoulder, and then chugs the rest of his wine. It goes down sour and makes him feel a bit sick— he wonders if he should have stuck to bottled water instead. “Uh, yeah, I’ve just… never had the chance to do this with. A guy.” Despite all his posturing, he’s nearly whispering, which is too embarrassing by far so he just quickly picks up the volume and continues, “I mean, I’ve banged loads of chicks—”

“Ah shit,” says Newt, shaking his head. Richie is sure he’s going to get up and leave or start laughing or do some awful other thing, but he just reaches for the empty bottle in Richie’s hand and puts both of their drinks on the dresser. In doing so, their fingers brush together for the briefest of moments. It really shouldn’t affect Richie at all, but like he said, he’s new to this. He swallows, hard.

Newt continues, “I mean, that’s a lot of pressure to put on someone.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, fighting the urge to apologize. If a woman his age confessed that she was a virgin it’d probably be hot, but for a guy it’s just kind of pathetic. Maybe it’s different for gay people, but. He wouldn’t know. He gnaws the inside of his cheek. “Yeah.”

Moving back towards him, Newt bounces back down onto the bed. His gaze is still pinned on Richie. “Like, how old are you anyway? Late forties?”

“Excuse me?!”

“Ooh, fifties?” Newt grimaces, leaning in closer and squinting at Richie. “Maybe we should’ve skipped the wine.”

“You’ve got jokes,” Richie cries. “Look who’s got jokes now!”

Or, at least, that’s what he tries to say before his speech is softly and entirely interrupted by Newt’s mouth on his. This at least is not novel, or it shouldn’t be— he’s kissed people before. Their first kiss lasts the longest, as Richie closes his eyes and tries not to panic. Then he twists his shoulders so that he can face Newt, and Newt inhales sharply before pressing their lips together again, and oh, this is _kissing_.

It becomes very difficult to compare the other times he’s kissed people to this, or to have any sort of rational thought at all. Newt tastes like cheap wine and chapstick, and every time their lips pull apart or slide to readjust he can hear it. Maybe Richie should have put on music but he finds he doesn’t mind— Newt is breathing heavily already, and instead of self-conscious or irritated, Richie just feels hot. Hot, like, get us out of these clothes right now hot.

He’s kissed men before, but he’s never had time to explore like this. Newt’s hand moves up to cradle the back of his neck and Richie reaches forward to respond in kind, hands travelling down Newt’s sides awkwardly until they land on his hips. If Richie reached just a little further, he could grab his ass. The thought is almost staggering.

As Richie uses his grip on Newt’s hips to pull them closer together, Newt makes an appreciative noise into his mouth. His fingers weave up into Richie’s hair as their tongues slide together. God, how does anyone get anything done when they could just spend all their time sucking on somebody else’s tongue? If Richie survives this, he’s absolutely going to develop a sex addiction. They’re going to have to send him to sex rehab, and give him bland green smoothies without straws or spoons or anything he can suck on.

Their glasses click together and Richie starts to reach up to take his off, but then Newt pulls his hair and Richie groans and decides he can live with the glasses. He leans into their next kiss, hungry for it, and chases the taste of wine right down Newt’s throat. When they pull away next it’s for air, both of them breathing heavily now.

“Please tell me you’ve at least done this before,” Newt says, voice thick. Richie blinks, opening his eyes— Newt is beautiful and flushed and disheveled. Jesus fuck. Does Richie look like that right now? Because he’s too dumbstruck to answer, Newt clarifies, “Making out. With a guy.”

“Yes,” Richie lies through his teeth, nodding quickly. “Yeah, obviously, dipshit. Just never… hit a home run.”

Newt nods, lips still parted. Richie leans in to kiss him again and they do, but Newt pulls back before they lose themselves in it. He lowers his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “It’s kinda hot that, like, you’ve never… I mean, that you haven’t done this kind of thing with anyone else.”

“Yeah?” Richie doesn’t pump a victorious fist in the air, but it’s a close thing. So much for male virgins in their thirties not being sexy. “You like it?”

Newt nods. “Kinda makes me wanna cover all our bases.” He crawls up the bed, gesturing for Richie to follow. “Not gonna lie, man, I kinda really wanna blow you right now.”

“Great,” Richie blurts out, nearly coming in his pants like a teenager. He inhales, then exhales, then follows Newt up the bed. “Cool, yeah, fine, um, I’m good with that.”

Again, Newt laughs. It should probably be a turn-off to have someone laugh at you when you’re about to get your dick sucked, but this is a pretty big first for Richie. Also, every time Newt laughs it feels like another win. “You’re good with that?”

“Uh-huh,” Richie decides, and starts to fumble with the button on his jeans. Newt leans over to help him, which consists of pushing Richie up against the pillows and unzipping his pants before yanking them down. “You want music or something?”

“Sure,” Newt shrugs, obviously not caring. “It’s your first time, dude, I think you get to choose— oh, holy fuck, your dick is big.”

“Stop,” Richie cackles, and flails. “I have to write that down somewhere, hang on, this is the best moment of my life!”

“I’m serious,” Newt insists, and to show how serious he is, he leans down to lick a stripe along Richie’s cock. Richie was serious too, because this is _absolutely_ the best moment of his life to date. His eyes shutter for just a moment before he forces them open. He’s glad he kept his glasses on; missing a second of this would be tragic. Newt says, breath hot against Richie’s balls, “There’s no way I’ll be able to fit this fucking monster dick in my mouth.”

His cock starts to leak, pulsing hot against Newt’s cheek, and he groans. “I-I’ll live.”

“Alright, hang on,” says Newt, reaching forward to take Richie in hand and stroke gently. He moves his mouth to the tip, licking it carefully like he’s never tasted anything like this before. Like he’s _sampling_ Richie. Richie groans again; even louder this time but he can’t bring himself to care.

Newt looks— happy. He’s smiling, for starters; like he’s running a new experiment and pleased with the results. He takes off his glasses, presumably so that they don’t fog up, and lowers his mouth down as much as he can. 

Richie watches his length disappear between Newt’s lips— a guy’s lips— a guy is sucking him off, and he isn’t even panicking about it. How the fuck could he panic about something that feels this amazing? He tries rolling his hips up, running a counter-experiment, and Newt sinks down a little more. Richie can feel the hot, wet heat of the back of his throat, and he slams his head against the pillow, trying desperately to think of things that’ll stop him from coming.

Thankfully, Newt pulls off before Richie can choke him with come. His mouth doesn’t leave Richie’s cock entirely though, lingering as he sucks the head between his wet, red lips. Richie gasps when Newt’s tongue laves around the tip, accompanied by his hand jerking Richie with renewed vigour. “Ah, f-fuck, Jesus, I’m g-gonna cut this short—”

Newt’s fingers tighten around the base of his dick and he pulls his mouth away, staring up at Richie curiously. “You wanna come, or you wanna do something else?”

“I wanna do something else,” Richie answers instantly, and then freaks out a little when he figures out that ‘something else’ is probably ‘getting fucked in the ass’. He’s… not _against_ it, really; it’s something he’s fantasized about a lot, and he usually comes fastest when he’s playing with his ass. But there’s no reason they can’t cover their bases, right? “That felt amazing,” he tells Newt. “I… I wanna give you a handjob.”

What he _wants_ to do is come down Newt’s throat and then go down on Newt while he’s getting fingered, but that’s probably… a little intense for a hookup, right? Richie doesn’t have to wait for an answer; Newt kicks off his pants and then kneels above Richie. “So,” he starts, almost making it sound like a challenge. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Have I ever jerked off a dick before?” Richie moves to sit up a little straighter, and then reaches out to pull Newt with him. Newt is practically straddling his lap, but Richie ignores his own cock for now to focus on the one in front of him. Newt’s briefs are patterned with cartoon Kaijus— it’s cute, if a little insensitive and offensive. But hey, that’s clearly this guy’s interest. “Nah, man, never in my life. I’m a grown man with a dick, and I’ve just _never_ touched it before. I just piss everywhere, I never take any showers... Why, does something happen when I touch it?”

“Try it and find out,” Newt dares him, but he’s smiling at Richie’s stupid jokes. That is, until Richie reaches up to grope at his bulge over his underwear, and then Newt is gasping and rocking his hips forward. “O-Okay, yeah, like that.”

“I know how to touch a dick, asshole,” Richie laughs, but it’s hollow with insecurity. Instead of leaning into the urge to apologize for his own perceived failings, he moves his thumb over Newt’s length and traces the shape of it. He can hardly hide the excitement as he continues, “That is, I know what I like. What do you like? Is it good if I do this?”

“Yeah,” Newt gasps as Richie rubs him through his underwear, not bothering to fish him out. “Y-yeah.” Richie can imagine how he’s feeling because he likes wearing tight underwear sometimes; briefs might not be the most masculine choice, but they sure do feel good rubbing against his dick as he jerks off. Judging from Newt’s heavy breathing, he doesn’t mind the friction either.

Before Richie can start properly stroking Newt while staring down at him, he’s pulled into another kiss. The wine between their lips is sour but the curve of Newt’s mouth is sweet, and hot. Richie kind of wants to chase that sourness; he works his hand down into Newt’s underwear and grabs a fistful of cock, stroking him hard and rough. In response, Newt moans all sweet and warm and wet into his mouth. Richie _really_ wants to chase that taste.

“Faster?” Newt doesn’t reply as Richie groans the rhetorical question into his mouth. “You like that, huh? This is how I like it, a little bit painful.” He squeezes around Newt’s dick, his other hand digging into the meat of the man’s thigh. “Not in like, an S&M way, but mostly because I don’t think I’d look good in leather with drool hanging out of my mouth?”

“Oh my god, dude, do you ever stop talking,” Newt whines into their next half-kiss, barely stopping to breathe. He rolls his hips up into Richie’s grip, and that fills Richie with a surge of bravery. In response to Newt he pulls away from their kissing, sliding down the bed until the other man’s cock is at eye level. 

A memory from a childhood he can’t recall comes back in full force— he had jumped into a lake, maybe. Maybe naked? Hell, it probably isn’t even a real memory, he’s probably thinking of the scene in Brokeback Mountain where they jump off the cliff and if you pause it you can see a full celebrity dick. Richie blinks away the half-baked memories of people he doesn’t remember and the fear of letting go, and he steels himself to dive right in.

He starts to swallow the cock, getting used to the alien sensation. It feels… well. He feels like a slut, to be honest— Richie thinks he can feel drool pooling at the back of his throat already. Is he salivating for this? Newt’s dick doesn’t taste like anything much yet; just like skin, and sweat, and something deeper. Richie’s eyes flutter closed and he does the best he can, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucks down Newt’s length. He thinks about pulling off for breath but then worries that he’ll chicken out if he lets it slip out of his mouth, so he flails and reaches for Newt’s hand, moving it to the back of his head.

“Oh, fuck,” Richie hears from above him. Fingers weave into his hair, edging him forwards. He groans in agreement, gulping down more of the warmth until he can feel the head of Newt’s dick right at the back, pressing up into the roof of his mouth. Richie hums, satisfied, and Newt babbles something incoherent.

Slipping off until his lips close at the very tip of Newt’s dick, Richie takes a sharp inhale in through his nose. He wants to make a joke so bad, but he’s worried he’ll say the wrong thing and that Newt won’t let him keep doing this. Then that thought alarms him a little, because he never would’ve guessed how much he’d love sucking dick. Richie’s tongue darts out to taste the end of it, running over the slit in his head. It’s so much better than anything else he’s put in his mouth— Richie can’t believe he’s been missing out on this his entire adult life.

Instead of telling Newt this, he settles for trying to milk the guy dry; Richie kitten-licks the end of his cock until Newt is keening above him. Then he licks his lips, widens his mouth, and sinks back down. It’s easier to take the length into his mouth the second time, and Richie sinks until Newt’s head is pressing down into his throat and his nose is buried in short, dark curly hair. To distract himself from gagging he reaches forward to play with Newt’s balls, eager to hear and feel and taste his reaction.

“Hell yeah, baby, Trashmouth,” laughs Newt. His hand yanks Richie up by his hair, which hurts a little— his eyes sting and his dick pulses. Shit, maybe he _is_ into S&M. Newt doesn’t pull him all the way off his length, only easing up a little before shoving his head back down. Richie’s teary eyes roll back in their sockets and he moans but it’s stifled by the weight of Newt’s cock, pressing against his tongue and palate and reducing his whole worldview down to the thick warmth in his mouth. 

Richie gargles and Newt repeats the motion, moving Richie’s willing mouth where he wants until he’s basically just fucking it like any other hole. Richie’s sure his eyes and face are red now but he can hardly focus, too overwhelmed by Newt filling him this well. Newt rocks his dick forward and Richie sucks as best he can, one hand clamped around Newt’s thigh and the other toying around with his sack until he gets too caught up in blowing Newt to even be able to fidget. 

He’s grinding against the mattress, which he doesn’t notice until Newt points it out. Richie wonders if Newt’s been talking this whole time. He feels slightly dazed when the hand on his head pulls him off, and he opens his eyes to see a trail of spit connecting his own lips to the head of Newt’s dick. Richie frowns. This is pretty gay of him, not gonna lie.

As he takes a moment to breathe Newt maneuvers him how he wants, which is apparently hooking Richie’s arms in his and pulling him back up until they can face each other. “This’ll be better,” Newt promises, and Richie wonders what could be better than trying to get any friction possible from rutting against the mattress as Newt fucks his mouth. But then they lie on their sides, and Newt pulls him in to kiss him, and their legs twine together without any hesitation. Richie rocks forward, almost unable to control the motion, and Newt grinds right back.

Newt’s mouth is still so good, and it’s hot that he doesn’t even seem to care that Richie’s lips were stretched around his dick like ten seconds ago. If anything, he clearly likes it; they kiss without much finesse as they grind together like teenagers, and Newt doesn’t hold back from licking into Richie’s mouth. Richie groans at the feeling of Newt riding his thigh, and his dick, just as hard, pulses against Newt. “Ahh— sh-shouldn’t we—” The words are swallowed between them for a moment, and then Richie manages to spit out, “Don’t you wanna fuck me?”

Newt slows down but his heart is still racing, and he’s still breathing hard. He looks at Richie, and for some reason that’s one of Richie’s favourite things they’ve done so far. He’s never done this before; never laid this close with any guy and just stared at his eyes, trying to piece together what he wants. After a long moment of talking without speaking, Newt raises an eyebrow. “I think _you_ should fuck _me_ ,” he decides.

Richie isn’t an idiot, so he nods eagerly. They separate so that Newt can go grab his bag from the closet, and he produces a small bright blue bottle and a condom. Richie strips off the rest of his clothes, staring at the bottle; Newt hands it over and then takes pity on him. 

“Oh, right,” Newt says with poorly disguised amusement dripping from his tone as he peels off his patterned underwear. “You’re a newbie, huh? Hey, have you ever fingered yourself before?”

“Yes,” Richie mutters, quiet and insecure, and then quickly adds, “Sorry, does that ruin your buzz of me being a virgin?”

“No,” Newt snorts. “Asshole. It’s fine, I just thought you might wanna get in some practice, I’ll do it—”

“I’ll do it,” Richie interrupts quickly, face flushed. “I w— I wanna do it. Roll over.”

Newt’s eyebrows shoot up again. “Yes, sir, mister bigshot comedian,” he replies, cheeky as ever, and obediently lies down on his front. Leaving Richie to stare at his butt, feeling like a creep masseur. Newt hums patiently, crossing his arms and resting his head on them. 

Richie stares at Newt’s tattoos instead of his ass, then at the back of his neck. He seems to have no reservations about letting Richie do this, which is… kind of heartwarming. As he reaches for the bottle, Richie says, “Well, thanks for letting me run this experiment… doctor bigshot scientist.”

“No problem, buddy,” Newt laughs, good-humoured. Richie uncaps the bottle and pours a small amount into his hands like shampoo. It smells mild and pleasant, and he rubs it between his fingers thoughtfully, straddling Newt’s thighs. Leaning forward to actually apply it is another thing entirely though, and Richie hesitates. “All in the name of scientific exploration!”

It’s strangely endearing, and it gives Richie the confidence he needs. Not too different from playing with his own ass, right? He bites his lower lip and leans down to spread Newt’s cheeks, tentatively rubbing the lube over his hole. Newt shivers instantly— Richie can nearly see the shock run up his back. But he recovers without saying anything, just adjusting himself a little before lying still again. Richie starts squeezing and oiling his cheeks, deciding to lean into both the masseuse thing and the bad dirty talk. “So do you have a hypothesis for how this is going to go, doctor? Wait, are you actually a doctor?”

“Small talk now? You wanna do small talk _now?”_ Richie rubs Newt’s cheeks, admiring how pink they’re actually getting. Newt sighs, long and comfortable. “Alright, fine. Yes, I have my doctorate. Not to brag, but I actually have six doctorates.”

“Gee, I’d hate to hear you brag.”

“And I was the second youngest person to ever be admitted to MIT.”

“Maybe that’s where I know you from,” Richie says thoughtfully. He drags his fingers between Newt’s cheeks again, waiting for a reaction— there’s nothing. Even when he circles Newt’s hole with the lube, nothing at all. “If only you were the youngest; that would’ve made a cool story.”

“I’m not the type of scientist you’re probably thinking of, though,” Newt smoothly ignores him. It annoys Richie for reasons he can’t place. “I do run experiments, and I work in a lab, but I work in cryptozoology-yyy-ahh.”

Richie grins, wiggling the tip of his finger pressed inside Newt. “Oooh. Sounds spooky.”

“You’re thinking of cryptids, like Bigfoot. Like I said, I work with Kaiju, so it’s more along the lines of xenomicrobiology,” Newt gasps. 

Richie drizzles more lube over his hole, enjoying the sight of his finger twisting in and out of it. “So you don’t believe in Bigfoot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Kaijus are basically cryptids, though. I mean, have you ever actually seen one?”

Richie slides his finger in deep, crooking it right as Newt explains, “They’re not cryptids, they’re aaaliens, ah, fuck, do that again.”

“Avoiding the question, I see.” Newt pushes back against Richie’s hand, and Richie uses his free hand to pinch his ass. “And when you say xenomicrobiology, are you referring to a scientific term you just made up on the spot?”

“No,” Newt grunts. Richie carefully adds another finger, waiting until it’s fully sheathed inside Newt to scissor them apart. “Xenomicrobiology is the study of— _oh my god_ , more, more, Richie, I need more.”

Ignoring the rush of blood to his dick at Newt saying his name, Richie just pulls his fingers out. “Sorry, study of what?”

“Aliens. Studying the biology of f-forms of life that aren’t known to us or found on this— fuck.”

“Found on this fuck,” Richie muses, curling his fingers inside Newt. “Interesting. So you’ve been studying kaiju for your whole life? They must really get you going, huh?”

“Shut up,” Newt groans. “You’re not interested, you’re just being a dick. And that’s enough prep, just fuck me already.”

“I’m not done my experiment yet, _doctor_ ,” Richie sings. He starts to piston his fingers in and out of Newt’s ass, adding a third when Newt starts groaning. It’s a tight squeeze, but he can’t imagine fitting his dick in there. Richie begins to curl his fingers on the end of every stroke, fucking Newt on his hand. “What’s your favourite thing about kaiju? Why have you chosen to study _this_ organism instead of, say, anything else?”

Newt launches into what sounds like a prepared lecture about the Kaiju, and truth be told, Richie can barely keep up. He listens, but he keeps getting distracted by the sight in front of him; Newt’s ass swallowing his fingers right down the knuckle. Richie adds more lube until Newt’s hole is slippery and Newt is gasping between every sentence, and then every word.

“Alright,” he finally interrupts, scissoring his hand inside Newt and then pulling it out as gently as he can. “A-alright. I… You ready?”

Newt rolls over, and Richie thinks he means to lie on his back and spread his legs. But instead he switches them around, pushing Richie down against the headboard. “You got me distracted talking about work,” Newt accuses, grinning. “I nearly forgot about your monster dick.”

“I didn’t mind,” Richie says easily, instead of the truth. What is he supposed to say? _Actually, it was weirdly super hot for me to listen to you ramble about shit I didn’t understand_. Newt is going to run for the hills.

But Newt doesn’t run for the hills. He rips the packet of a condom open and tosses the wrapper off the bed, all without taking his eyes off Richie. He doesn’t even ask before helping Richie get it on, sliding his hand down the length of him. After talking about stupid shit for so long the silence is almost stifling, and every noise seems too loud. Newt’s breathing is still heavy but he isn’t gasping anymore, and Richie misses the moaning. His cock pulses in Newt’s grasp at the thought, and Newt takes it as encouragement and doubles his efforts.

“Alright,” Richie mutters as Newt straddles him, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the silence. “Aha— uh, okay. Are you just gonna… do you need me to—” but it becomes clear that Newt doesn’t need any more help from him. He moves Richie into the right place and then sinks down onto him, and before Richie can do so much as inhale, Newt’s leaning into an open kiss as he takes Richie’s dick.

It feels like jumping into the lake (so that must have been a real memory). Richie is the one gasping now, trying desperately to get his breathing under control as his hands fly to Newt’s waist. He never imagined it like this, so bright and hot and intimate. The lights are still on, for God’s sake. Every time Richie imagined his first time he was the one getting fucked, and there was always some sort of wall in the way. Not always literally, but he had never imagined that he would be able to count every tattoo on his partner as they lowered themself onto his dick. He can see the stubble on Newt’s chin when he pulls away, breathing hard. “You good?”

“I’m good!” He pulls himself away from the lake. “So good. Just feeling a little overwhelmed. Must be a virgin thing.”

“Me too, if that helps.” Newt swings his hips from side to side gently, not enough to unseat Richie. Richie rocks upwards and Newt sits back, sinking down even further. This new position is affecting him more; Richie can see a new flush spreading over his face. “Must be the size of your dick, because this isn’t _my_ first rodeo.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about Bigfoot.” He wiggles his toes but Newt can’t see it, so the joke kind of falls flat. “What about you? You good?”

“I’m g-great,” Newt breathes, letting his hands fall to Richie’s chest. “You want me like this?”

Richie nods. He does, but… the stimulation is still too much. “Keep talking about that kaiju shit,” he blurts out. “The particulars and everything. It was… working. For some reason.”

Moving to stroke himself off, Newt raises himself up— and then sinks back down. “I kind of covered all the basics, and I don’t want to give away state secrets… Uh, do you know anything about the drift?”

Richie shakes his head, moving his hands on Newt’s hips. If he speaks right now, he might shout.

“Okay, well, I know you know you need two people to control a Jaeger. Basically, the reason behind that is that-that the neural load is too great for one person, because if you’re synchronizing with a giant robot it can overwhelm your brain and-and you c-can— fuck.”

Richie gasps, “Fuck the robot?”

“Fuck you,” Newt lets go of his dick to reach up and swat Richie’s nipple. “Fuck y-you, you’re… I’ve never given a lecture like this before. Alright, umm, okay! Basically to lighten the load, you need to share the… when you’re mind melding with the Jaeger, you _also_ need to meld with another person. Your co-pilot. And the space that your brains are sharing, all your combined memories and emotions and personality traits and whatever, that’s the Drift.”

Newt is riding Richie in earnest now, and it’s almost impossible to keep up with what he’s saying, but Richie is a talented multitasker. “So you can… see their memories?”

“You’re in them,” Newt corrects, groaning so loud that they’re going to get a noise complaint. Every time he raises himself up, Richie’s cock comes close to slipping out of him. “It brings you together into the same headspace and communication is different, the way you view the world and think is different. People have picked up different languages after drifting. And sharing that space is why it’s so important to find the right compatible partner. Because if you’re not drift compatible, you won’t be able to pilot shit.”

“I’m really close,” Richie confides in him. “This is really fucking doing it for me. Have you ever drifted?”

“I’m a scientist, not a Jaeger pilot,” whines Newt. He returns to stroking himself, trying to match the rhythm. “But I’ve studied it, obviously; I’ve thought about it. About— about being— be-being with—”

“Yeah,” Richie gasps, thinking of someone laying his mind bare and stripping down his defenses. Combing through his memories and all his other bullshit and sharing their headspace with him. Before he knows it, he’s seizing up; Newt presses down, and he comes with an embarrassing noise that he will deny for the rest of his days.

As he’s floating down Newt murmurs, “Fuck,” and then, “you weren’t kidding.” He keeps riding Richie through the aftershocks, seemingly bouncing on his dick for his own purposes. It’s so fucking hot to see Newt using him like a toy, and if Richie hadn’t just came enough to make his thighs tremble then he just might get it up again.

Newt rolls his hips and Richie’s cock is so sensitive now that it almost hurts, but he doesn’t mind. He just grins, letting Newt grab his arm with his free hand. His own hands slide down around the scientist’s back, holding his ass and encouraging him forward. Newt is close too; it’s obvious from the noises he’s making and the look on his face. 

Richie raises his head to glance at Newt’s dick, watching it push in and out of his tight fist. Then he looks back up at Newt’s flushed face. When he speaks, he makes sure to keep his tone as purposefully casual as he can. “Yeahhh, I don’t understand the shit you said, but hopefully you know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

The fucked-out expression on Newt’s face changes in an instant to one of indignation. “Hopefully?!”

“I’m sure they got the best man for the job,” Richie teases, squeezing his ass. “Or maybe the _youngest_ MIT student ever was unavailable. Is that the case, Doctor Geiszler?”

And for some reason, that snide tone is what makes Newt come all over Richie’s chest.

YEARS LATER

“I don’t want to share mine,” Mike says, holding his beer in both hands. He’s sitting on the couch like a normal person at a party while Bill has somehow slid down onto the floor, resting his back between Mike’s legs. He’s going to grouse about his back tomorrow and they’ll all nod and roll their eyes, because it’s hard to feel sympathetic for an adult man who uses his bike to get everywhere, even when he’s spectacularly bad at biking. 

But for now Bill is content, leaning against his husband’s leg and twisting up to look at him. “You— You don’t have to,” he assures Mike.

Richie glares. “Yes you do.”

Bill tries to throw a pillow at Richie and misses horribly, hitting Ben in the leg and making him spill his drink on Bev, who squawks. Bill and Ben both shout apologies as Richie cackles, and Bev reaches for the roll of paper towels that Eddie insisted they would need. Eddie looks incredibly smug about being right but it’s subtle enough that you could only tell if you knew him well. Unfortunately, all these idiots know him very well.

Mike sighs. “It’s not… it’s just embarrassing! I mean, you all left Derry, and I… I stayed, so—”

“Aww,” Beverly pauses in her task of mopping up the drink, and Ben grabs the paper towel out of her hand to take over. “Did you save yourself for Bill?”

“... Not consciously,” Mike admits, which garners another loud _awww_ from almost everyone. Bill looks tickled pink, and he pats Mike’s shoe encouragingly. “I mean, had I known about Audra, maybe I would’ve gone out and found somebody for myself.”

Bill looks confused and then aghast, stammering out, “I’m s-sorry!”

Before Mike and Bill can launch into their nightly rounds of _‘you are my happiness blah blah blah’_ , Richie interrupts, “What about you, Mister and Missus Beverly Marsh? If any of us have an interesting virginity story, it’s probably you, Molly Ringwald.” He says this with all the confidence of someone hiding the best story ever in their back pocket.

Ben pulls a slightly pained face, but Bev just scowls at Richie. “Virginity isn’t real. It’s a scam.”

“It’s a construct,” Bill corrects.

“Whatever. It’s just a conspiracy or whatever.” She downs the remains of Ben’s drink. “I would ask you, Richie, but you’re just gonna say some shit about Eddie’s mom.”

Before Richie can contradict her, Ben smiles politely and says with all the decorum of a business professional, “What about you, Eddie? What was your first time like?”

The pair of them have never actually discussed this, and suddenly Richie is so curious that he can’t even crack a joke about Myra. He turns to look over at his partner, who takes a long draught of his beer before smiling. “Well. Alright. Fine. You all know the famous Geiszler-Gottliebs, right? The… yeah. Yeah, I, uh… I hooked up with one of them in a bathroom at this dive bar.”

Richie’s jaw drops. “Wait, _what?"_


End file.
